LITMIR.BIZ

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a couple of hours he heard the little stir of David’s return, and the preparation for tea. Maggie brought his table to the fireside and covered it with a square of linen, and set upon it his cup and plate. He had a book in his hand and he pretended to be absorbed in it; but he did not lose a movement that she made.

      “Your tea is a’ ready, sir.”

      He lifted his eyes then, and again her clear candid gaze was caught by his own. Both were this time distinctly conscious of the meeting, and both were for the moment embarrassed.

      “It looks good, Maggie, and I am hungry. Is your brother back?”

      “David is hame, sir. It was a hard walk he had. He’s tired, I’m thinking.”

      The last words were said more to herself than to her lodger. She was somewhat troubled by Davie’s face and manner. He had scarcely spoken to her since his return, but had sat thinking with his head in his hands. She longed to know what Dr. Balmuto had said to him, but she knew David Would resent questioning, and likely punish her curiosity by restraining confidence with her for a day or two. So she spoke only of the storm, and of the things which had come into her life or knowledge during his absence.

      “Kirsty Wilson has got a sweetheart, David, and her no sixteen yet.”

      “Kirsty aye thocht a lad was parfect salvation. You shallna be mair than civil to her. She has heard tell o’ the man staying wi’ us. It wad be that brought her here nae doot.”

      “She was not here at a’. Maggie Johnson telled me. Maggie cam’ to borrow a cup o’ sugar. She said Cupar’s boat tried to win out o’ harbor after the storm. It could not manage though.”

      “It was wrang to try it. Folks shouldna tempt Providence.”

      “The cakes baked weel to-day.”

      “Ay, they are gude eating.”

      Then she could think of nothing more to say, and she washed the cups, and watched the dark, sad man bending over the fire. A vulgar woman, a selfish woman, would have interrupted that solemn session at her hearth. She would have turned Inquisitor, and tortured him with questions. “What’s the matter?” “Is there anything wrong?” “Are you sick?” etc., etc. But when Maggie saw that her brother was not inclined to talk to her, she left him alone to follow out the drift of his own thoughts. He seemed unconscious of her presence, and when her active house duties were over, she quietly pulled her big wheel forward, and began to spin.

      The turfs burned red, the cruisie burned low, the wheel “hummed” monotonously, and Maggie stepped lightly to-and-fro before it. In an hour the silence became oppressive, she was sleepy, she wished Davie would speak to her. She laid her fingers on the broad wooden band and was just going to move, when the inner door was opened, and the stranger stood at it. His pause was but a momentary one, but the room was all picture to him, especially the tall fair woman with her hand upon the big wheel, and her face, sensitive and questioning, turned toward her brother.

      “David Promoter.”

      “Ay, sir.” He moved slowly like a man awakening from a sleep, but very quickly shook off the intense personality of his mood, and turned to the stranger with a shy and yet keen alertness.

      “I dinna ken your name, sir, or I wad call you by it.”

      “My name is Allan Campbell.”

      “Sit down, sir. You are vera welcome. Can I do aught to pleasure you?”

      “I want my trunk from Largo. Yesterday the sea was too heavy to bring it. Can you get it for me to-morrow?”

      “An’ the sea be willing, sir.”

      “There is a box of books also, but they are very heavy.”

      “Books! We’ll try and bring them ony way.”

      “You love books then?”

      “Better than bread.”

      “What have you read?”

      “I have read my Bible, and The Institutes, and the Scot’s Worthies, and pairt o’ the Pilgrim’s Progress. But I didna approve o’ John Bunyan’s doctrine. It’s rank Armenianism.”

      “I have just finished a volume of Scott’s poems. Have you read any of them?”

      “Na, na; I hae nae skill o’ poetry, sir, an’ it be na the Psalms o’ David.”

      “Let me read you a stanza, that I think you will enjoy.”

      He went for his book and drew a chair beside the little light, and read with a great deal of fire and feeling some passages from “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.” He was soon sensible that he was gradually stirring in these two untutored souls, feelings of which they had hitherto been unconscious. He put more and more passion into the words, finally he threw down the book, and standing erect, recited them with outstretched arms and uplifted face. When he ceased, David was listening like one entranced; and Maggie’s knitting had fallen to the floor: for she had unconsciously risen, and was gazing at the speaker with a face that reflected every change of his own. It was as if the strings of a harp had snapped, and left the souls of the listeners in mid-air. With an effort the enthusiasm was put aside, and after a minute’s pause, David said, “I ne’er heard words like them words. Mony thanks to you, sir. I’m right glad it was a Scot wrote them,” and he murmured softly—

      “O Caledonia stern and wild!

       Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,

       Land of the mountain and the flood.”

      Still it was Maggie’s shy, tremulous glance and luminous face, that Thanked and pleased Campbell most, and he lifted the book and went away, almost as much under the spell of the poet, as the two simple souls who had heard his music for the first time. There was a moment or two in which life seemed strange to the brother and sister. They had much the same feeling as those who awaken from a glorious dream and find sordid cares and weary pains waiting for them. David rose and shook himself impatiently, then began to walk about the narrow room. Maggie lifted her stocking and made an effort to knit, but it was a useless one. In a few minutes she laid it down, and asked in a low voice, “Will you have a plate o’ parritch, Davie?”

      “Ay; I’m hungry, Maggie; and he’ll maybe like one too.”

      So the pan was hung over the fire, and the plates and bowls set; and while Maggie scattered in the meal, and went for the milk, Davie tried to Collect his thoughts, and get from under the spell of the Magician of his age. And though poetry and porridge seem far enough apart Campbell said a hearty “thank you” to the offer of a plate full. He wanted the food, and it was also a delight to watch Maggie spread his cloth, and bring in the hot savory dish of meal, and the bowl of milk. For her soul was still in her beautiful face, her eyes limpid and bright as stars, and the simple meal so served reminded him of the plain dignified feasts of the old rural deities. He told himself as he watched her, that he was living a fairer idyl than ever poet dreamed.

      “Gude night, sir,” she said softly, after she had served the food, “you took me into a new life the night, and thank you kindly, sir.”

      “It was a joy to me, Maggie. Good night.”

      She was a little afraid to speak to David; afraid of saying more than he would approve, and afraid of saying anything that would clash with the subject of his meditations. But she could not help noticing his restlessness and his silence; and she was wondering to herself, “why men-folk would be sae trying and contrary,” when she heard him say—

      “Grand words, and grand folk, Maggie; but there are far grander than thae be.”

      “Than kings, and queens, and braw knights and fair leddies?” “Ay, what are thae to angels and archangels, powers and dominions, purity, faith, hope, charity? Naething at a’.”

      “Maybe; but I wish I could see them, and I

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